


Teacher

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [36]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Possessive Sherlock, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, but let's be honest almost all my PWPs are unrealistic sex, i feel like i should say unrealistic sex, oh right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3383471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>part of the one word bottomjohn prompt series.</p><p>Someone flirts with John and Sherlock is unimpressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teacher

There's a line up. Of course there's a line up.

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock snarls. “Don't these people know how terrible it is to drink coffee after five?”

It's stifling. The doors are closed and the air conditioning is whirring away but it's not doing nearly enough to compensate for the sheer number of people crowding into the tiny space.

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock snaps for the fourth time in sixty seconds, rolling back and forth on his feet, his elbows knocking into the people ahead and behind them without noticing. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

“For God's sake, Sherlock. Go wait outside. There's no point in us both roasting alive and if you don't get out of my immediate vicinity Lestrade's going to get his next homicide case a hell of a lot sooner than expected.”

Sherlock glares at him, a look of pure outraged dignity, but he doesn't offer any argument, simply snaps over his shoulder for John not to forget the sugar, then stomps out the door well on his way to a tantrum.

“Christ,” John mutters under his breath, and the man in line ahead of him glances back at John over his shoulder and offers a lop-sided grin of commiseration.

“It's the heat,” the stranger says. “Sometimes I want to just pull a strop and find a wall to kick, too.”

John snorts. “Yeah, well, most of us don't actually get to.”

The man laughs, a light, easy sound and John finds himself smiling crookedly back in spite of himself.

“Sorry,” he says. “He's brilliant, really. Just...difficult.”

The stranger grins. “Yeah, I've heard. John Watson, right?”

John blinks. “Erm. Yeah. Sorry. Do I—do I know you?”

“Oh, no! Apologies. My name's Paul. I'm absolutely fanatic about your blog.”

“Oh! Yeah, right. Sorry. Just—never quite get used to that sort of thing.”

“So is it true, then? Can you figure out what I do just by looking at me?”

John laughs, an uncomfortable sound. “Ah, no. No, that's more Sherlock's thing. I just do the blogs. Keep the books. Send in the taxes. That sort of thing.”

Paul grins and peers at him, brown eyes narrowed and quizzing. “I don't know. I think you're smarter than you pretend to be.”

“We're all idiots next to Sherlock Holmes.”

“Try me,” Paul says, and that grin is still there, bright and wide. “I'll bet you can do it. Tell me, Doctor Watson. What do I do for a living?”

John can feel his lips tugging up in a reluctant grin and he thinks, _well, why not?_ He takes a step back and looks at the stranger.

“Um,” he says, “Teacher?”

Paul throws his head back and laughs. “My God, it's true!”

“Well, to be fair, you've got a line of chalk on your trousers from leaning against the board.”

“Oh bollocks,” Paul says with a sheepish smile and tries to look around behind him, dusting vigorously at the mark with a hand. “Listen, Doctor, it was fantastic to meet you. How do you feel about a coffee some time? I mean, not here, obviously. But somewhere else. Have a sit down. We can both practice our deduction skills. I get out early on Wednesdays.”

“Oh.” John stares at him and he can feel his cheeks start to heat. “Um. No. Definitely not. I mean. Sorry. That sounds lovely, Paul—” and he stops as a large hand descends on his back and a familiar presence appears suddenly over his left shoulder.

“Paul, is it?” says Sherlock, and John can feel himself shiver at the threat in that voice.

“Sherlock—”

“Just a minute, John. I want to meet your new friend.”

“He's not—”

“Paul. Paul. School teacher Paul. Forty-two years old with three—no, four divorces. Father was a drunk. You're terrified of turning into him, but you already have, haven't you, Paul?”

“Sherlock—”

“Oh, not because of the drinking. How many affairs did you have, exactly? You're either extremely stupid about it or extremely self-destructive given how many times you were caught. My bet is on self-destructive, though stupid isn't too far off the mark either. Not about that, though. No, that's a thrill, isn't it? Knowing how easy it is to hurt someone. Seeing that betrayal on their face when they walk in on you with your dick up the latest fling's bum. Seeing their disgust. You love that, don't you? Proving them wrong. Proving that you've got nothing to lose. And that's where the stupidity comes in, Paul the teacher. Because you still haven't figured out that having nothing to lose just means that you've already lost.”

There is a brief second in which none of them move. The coffee shop hums around them. The line moves a step ahead.

“Oi!” says the man behind John. “Move up!”

And the bubble pops and Sherlock is grabbing John's wrist, dragging him away, and John is looking back at Paul, too startled to do anything but stare.

He doesn't realise where Sherlock is taking him until the door of the loo is slammed shut behind him and he watches open-mouthed as Sherlock reaches over his shoulder and flicks the deadbolt home.

“Sherlock, what—”

He doesn't get any further. Sherlock's mouth descends on him and John can feel the clack of their teeth in the fury of that contact. It's hot and fierce and John is instantly hard and he groans because he has no idea how they're going to get out of here without causing a spectacle.

He tries to pull away, tries to inject some calm into the situation, but he's pressed between Sherlock and the door and when he struggles Sherlock simply growls and grasps his neck in an iron grip and keeps him still.

And John could get out of it. Sherlock's never had him in a place yet that he didn't want to be, and for a moment his rational brain yells at him to do something, but the less rational part of his brain is by far the louder, by far the more insistent, and when Sherlock suddenly pulls away again, John actually follows him, a protesting moan already slipping from between his bruised lips. He stumbles, off-balance, and Sherlock is dragging him again, two steps towards the sink. Fluorescent lights buzz faint above the large mirror and John grunts as Sherlock pushes him forward against the edge of the counter and John stares at his reflection, white-faced and gaping, Sherlock snarling behind him.

“Look at yourself, John,” he growls, and his voice is low and John is shivering because there something terrifying in it, something feral. “Look at your face, bruised and swollen from my teeth. I'm going to fuck you, John, and you're going to watch yourself while I do it. You're going to see what it looks like when I fuck you, what it looks like when someone else owns you. Because you are _mine,_ John. You are _mine.”_

“Sherlock,” John gasps, struggling to breathe. “Fuck. Sherlock, please. Please.” He cries out as he feels the sharp puncture of teeth in the back of his neck. Sherlock's cock presses at the cleft of his arse and he pushes back into it, bucking his hips before he can stop himself.

Around his waist, Sherlock grapples with his belt. It comes undone and Sherlock drags his trousers down, pulling them down with his pants. John can hear himself babbling again, incomprehensible words, fevered and breathless.

“Mine,” Sherlock breathes in his ear, and John watches wide-eyed as he pumps lotion into his hand from the dispenser. “Mine.” John is staring and can't stop, watching Sherlock's face over his shoulder and he hears the wet sound of lotion on skin. Dark eyes meet his in the reflection and Sherlock says, “Look at yourself, John,” and John does. It's all the warning he has before there is a sudden press of something hard between the cheeks of his arse, something unforgiving and deliberate and _oh god oh god oh god_ he has no time, no time to adjust before suddenly it is at his entrance, pushing in at the rim and he stares at his face, at his mouth in a wide-open O and his eyes dark and frantic as he's shoved helpless into the counter and Sherlock's cock is pushing deep into his hole.

And oh god it's hard. He can feel himself being stretched, being pulled apart and invaded. Sherlock is huge and John is whining, high-pitched and desperate as his body struggles to accommodate the sudden mass pushing inexorably into his hole. His thighs are tethered by his trousers, but he pushes back, trying to give himself space, give himself room to spread his legs, to make it easier, but Sherlock's hands are on his hips, his body pressing him into the counter, keeping him still, and John can only stare at his own reflection in the mirror, at his own face, utterly unrecognisable to himself as he's invaded and filled.

And when finally he feels the heat of Sherlock's pelvis pressing flush with his arse and Sherlock is in him, completely and sheathed by the desperate heat of John's body, when there is a pause as John struggles to breathe, as he mouths, breathless, silent words at his own reflection, _please please please please please,_ then Sherlock's voice comes, hot and dangerous in his ear: _“Mine.”_ And then Sherlock starts to move.

There is nothing soft about it, nothing gentle or reciprocal. It is a claiming, pure and simple. It is hard and furious, a punishment meant to teach, to remind, and John is screaming, words mixed in with animal noises, high and desperate and wanting. There is nothing of control left in his body. He is bucking wildly, his hips jerking back and forth, frantic in turn to be claimed, every instinct demanding to be taken and possessed, and through the whole thing, Sherlock's voice is in his ear, snarling and dangerous and true: _“Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine.”_

Neither of them last long, but it feels like forever. When John comes, it is almost painful in its intensity, the sheer relief of it leaving him weak. He stares at his face, at the shock in it, the bruised, stunned expression as his body arches backwards and he feels himself emptying, his come splattering across his own reflection, crude and utterly profane. He can feel his arse clenching impossibly tighter around Sherlock's thrusting cock and he hears the grunt of surprise and the last word, _“mine,”_ cut off midbreath and the sudden heated wetness deep inside his hole, spilling into his body and staining him.

And then an almost impossible silence, nothing but the sound of their breaths, heaving and panting as they collapse forward over the sink. John grunts as he feels Sherlock's cock slipping out of his bruised and aching hole, and as soon as it does, the warm spill of Sherlock's come sliding out, sliding down his thighs and he shivers at the feeling, at the mess of it, and he imagines how it must look. And he thinks, _Next time. Next time we'll use a camera._

Then abruptly, the silence is gone, replaced by the sound of a fist, heavy against the locked door.

“Oi! You two!” comes a voice from the other side, and there is the barest second in which Sherlock and John stop breathing. And then Sherlock gives and snort and John starts giggling madly into his arm.

“It would be Lestrade,” Sherlock says.

“Damn it, Sherlock,” John says when he can speak. “I really liked the coffee here.”

 


End file.
